“They didn’t know,” she said, “and I was over eighteen.”
There was still a big power imbalance—teacher/student, older man/younger woman, employer/employee. But I said nothing. It had happened, and Starke was dead.
“Any reason one of his girlfriends would want to kill him?” I asked.
Doran shifted against the desk.
“Well, I didn’t,” she said. “I mean, the breakup was painful, but aren’t they always? And it was years ago.”
“Someone accused Starke of plagiarism,” I said. “Did you see any indications of that when you worked for him?”
“Plagiarism?” Angie’s eyebrows shot skyward. “No way.” She tugged on her plump bottom lip. “But . . .”
“But what?” I asked.
“Well, you know, ideas aren’t copyrighted.”
“He took other people’s ideas?”
“No, not exactly. He kept an idea file of news stories and such, and then he’d mix and match ideas to create something original. That’s often how creativity works. You take two or three ideas and mash them together to get something new.”
“So ‘Death in a Parking Lot’ might not have even happened in a parking lot,” Charlene said.
“What?” Angie asked.
“It’s a poem Professor Starke read the night he died,” I said. “Someone suggested he’d plagiarized the story. Someone else told us it might have been based on a true story.”
“Well, if it was true, his poem wouldn’t have been plagiarism,” Angie said. “It’s not unusual or necessarily unethical to dramatize a true story. I mean, there are some ethical gray areas, but it’s done all the time.”
“Especially if he had direct knowledge of the event,” I said, leaning one hip against the desk. “His poem was written in the first person.”
“There you go,” she said. “Not plagiarism.”
Frederick sneezed.
“Did you know Professor Aidan McClary?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh my God. He was crazy! I mean, that Irish accent is amazing, but he played the impassioned Irishman cliché to the hilt.”
“So no rumors of anything odd or unusual about him?”
She shook her head. “He gave me an A. That was all I cared about.”
“Thanks.” Charlene reached into the pocket of her knit tunic and handed Angie a card. “If you think of anything else, call us.”
She flushed. “Doran said something about a pot pie . . . ?”
“After taking up her time,” Doran said, “I figured a free pie was the least we could do.”
“Sure,” I said. I led Angie into the restaurant, and she selected a chicken curry pot pie. Under the interested gazes of Tally Wally, Graham, and Marla, I boxed the pie and saw her to the door.
Its bell jingled lightly.
“Where’d you find her?” I asked Doran, who’d trailed us into the dining area.
He made a face. “I’ve been building contacts on college campuses, and they put out feelers for me. I often work with copywriters, and that means English departments.”
“Nicely done.” Bracing one hand on the cash register, I glanced at the avid faces of my regulars at the counter.
My brother shrugged, his motorcycle jacket creaking. “I don’t think it helped much.”
I bit my bottom lip. Should I tell him it wasn’t helpful, to discourage him from investigating? Or should I make him feel better? “I don’t see where any of this is going either,” I said in a low voice, “but we’re at the information-gathering stages. When we know more, we’ll be able to take everything and piece it together. It’s like a puzzle.”
“Ever get stuck with leftover pieces?” he asked.
I changed the subject. “Did you hear about Professor McClary’s death last night?” I asked more quietly, edging from the eavesdroppers at the counter.
He straightened. “What? No! Does Abril know?”
In a whisper, I told him about how Charlene and I had found the professor.
He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. “This is bad. Abril could be in danger.”
“How do you figure that?” I asked.
Charlene strode behind the counter, narrowed her eyes at Marla, and pushed through the Dutch door. Finding an empty stool between the register and her fremesis, she sat. Charlene planted her elbow on the counter, blocking Marla’s view of Doran and me. “Figure what?”
Doran’s head bent toward his phone, his thumbs flying across the keypad. “The murders have to be connected to the college,” he said in his outside voice, “and she was working for Starke.”
I glanced at the counter regulars, who’d stopped pretending to drink coffee and stared avidly.
“Abril hadn’t started working for him yet,” I whispered, hoping he’d take the hint and lower the volume.
He blew out his breath. “She’s on her way here,” he said loudly, not taking the hint at all.
“Now?” I asked, surprised. “Abril worked a morning shift. She’s not due back until tomo—Oh. You mean to meet you.” My brother and Abril seemed to have bonded quickly if she was dropping everything to meet him. Or maybe she just wanted to learn more about our interview with Angie. Or maybe their budding relationship hadn’t been so quick, and I just hadn’t noticed.
I studied Doran’s pensive face, and my chest squeezed. Abril was a good person, and I knew she wouldn’t lead him on. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t get hurt.
The bell over the door jingled.
Gordon strode into the restaurant holding a massive bouquet of daisies. He met my gaze and smiled, the corners of his emerald eyes crinkling.
My heart jumped. He’d been freakishly Zen after catching me at another crime scene last night. I hadn’t quite trusted his reaction and had been waiting for the other cast-iron pan to drop.
Tally Wally whistled. “Flowers? For me? You shouldn’t have.”
“I didn’t.” Gordon leaned across the counter and kissed me. “Hey.”
“Hey back,” I said. “What’s with the flowers?”
He handed me the bouquet—gerbera daisies in a rainbow of colors. “They’re for you.”
“They’re beautiful,” I said, smiling uncontrollably. “Thank you.”
“Hi, Doran,” Gordon said.
My brother muttered something and slunk to the other side of the counter, next to Graham.
“I don’t think your brother likes me,” Gordon murmured.
I sighed. “I don’t know him well enough to say.”
“That was a heavy sigh.” Gordon massaged my shoulder, and I leaned closer. “What’s going on?”
I steered him into the hall and to a spot outside the kitchen door, where I could keep an eye on Charlene. “Doran told me he was leaving San Nicholas, but about two minutes after he said that, he saw Abril and got all googly-eyed. Now he’s convinced she’s in danger.”
“I guess I can see that,” he said, “after what happened to Professor McClary.”
My mouth went dry. I stepped away to get a better look at him. “Wait. You think Abril’s in danger too?”
“No, but I can see why Doran would worry. I worry about you too.”
“Gordon, about last night—”
He raised his palm. “Don’t say it. I know who you are, and I knew what I was getting. But it’s a good thing Chief Shaw was out of town last night. Otherwise, you’d probably be sitting in the pokey charged with interfering in an investigation.”
The pokey? “We called 911 right away—”
He lowered his head and gave me a look. “After you’d invited all the suspects to Pie Town for an Agatha Christie–style interrogation. Yes, I told you listening for gossip in Pie Town wasn’t out of bounds. But that doesn’t mean you can lure suspects into your kitchen for the third degree.”
I swallowed. “I know. I stepped over the line. I should probably be the one bringing you flowers. So what gives?” I angled my head toward the daisies, their stems damp in my hand.
“There was a break-in at the nursery. The daisies reminded me of you.”
“Aw . . .” I warmed. Even when he was annoyed with me, he was still thinking nice things. And—oh my God—we were totally honeymoon-phase fantasists!
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“It’s just . . . I mean, aren’t you even a little mad?”
“Do you want me to be?”
“No, of course not, but . . .”
Marla leaned closer on her barstool.
“But what?” he asked.
I swallowed. “I know we’ve had this conversation before, about boundaries between your job and my, um, the Baker Street Bakers.”
His lips quirked. “Go on.”
I opened my mouth and closed it, because I wasn’t sure where I was going with this. Why was my stomach knotting, my hands clammy on the flowers?
“Charlene told me she went to Professor McClary’s house and you were pretty much forced to follow,” he said.
“She did?”
“Well, not in so many words, but I got the gist.”
“But you said that wasn’t what was bothering you,” I said. “It was us inviting the suspects to Pie Town.”
“Nothing is bothering me today. My father does not have bladder cancer.”
I blinked. “Does not—” Wait. Bladder cancer? “That’s wonderful, but you mean you thought he had?” And he hadn’t said anything about it to me. My mother had died from breast cancer. I knew that dread fear. Why hadn’t he said anything?
“The doctor wasn’t sure, so I didn’t want to say anything.”
“But you know you could have, right?” I asked, worried.
“I know.” He kissed me again. “Listen, I’m on duty, so I’ve got to go. But I’ll call you tonight.”
“Great. And thanks again for the flowers. They’ve really brightened my day.”
I watched him walk out the door, a sinking feeling in my gut. He hadn’t told me something important, and he hadn’t blown up when I’d clearly crossed a line. I wanted to think it was nothing. He’d brought me flowers, after all. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong.
CHAPTER 18
Marla swiveled her barstool to face Pie Town’s front door. She braced her elbows on the counter. “Ah, young love.” The older woman eyed me. “Well, in your case, not that young.”
Oh, please. Marla was a well-preserved seventy if she was a day. She and Charlene had gone to school together.
“Put a cork in it, Marla,” Charlene growled. Limp on her shoulder, Frederick rumbled a warning.
The cheerful voices of customers filled the restaurant. The gamers were in their usual corner booth. Afternoon sun slanted through the mini blinds and across the black-and-white-tiled floor. The front door had been repaired, crystal clear glass filling the top and bottom panes.
“Why, it’s obvious something’s wrong.” Marla tapped a bejeweled finger on her chin. “Just look at Val’s face. It’s the face of someone about to get dumped. At least you’re not at the altar this time.”
“I wasn’t at the altar the first time,” I said calmly. “The breakup was mutual and pre-wedding.” Even if I’d already bought the rotten dress.
Graham and Tally Wally pretended not to listen and blew on their coffees.
Marla pressed her hands to her chest, framing her gold anchor pendant. “So brave. So very, very brave.”
“Can I get you a slice of pie?” I asked pointedly.
A half-dozen tourists walked through the door, looked around, and ambled to the counter.
“Oh, no.” She smoothed her hands over her blue-and-white-striped knit shirt. “I’m sticking with coffee. I need to watch my girlish figure.”
“You haven’t been a girl since the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor,” Charlene snapped.
I could see there would be no winners in this argument. So I took orders from the new arrivals. Then I returned to the kitchen and sent Hunter into the dining area to bus tables and Petronella to man the register. The ovens were off at this hour, the pies baked for the day, and I wanted to think. Pie Town was oddly crowded with tourists, even for a September Friday afternoon. After our closure due to the smoke bomb, we could use the business, so I wasn’t sure why I was looking this gift horse in the mouth. Natural suspicion, I guess.
Plus, I had the gnawing feeling Angie had said something important, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. Busying myself placing orders for tomorrow’s deliveries didn’t clarify matters. Neither did figuring out tomorrow’s specials, or plating customer orders spun through the kitchen window.
Petronella whirled the ticket wheel, and six new orders for pie appeared. Giddily, I plated the pies and shoved them through the order window. Woot! That was a pleasantly big sale. “Order up!”
And more orders kept coming. This was the time for people to stop by to take pies home, not to order pies by the slice. I adjusted my apron strap and shoved another order through the window. Not that I minded the boom, but what was going on?
An hour later, Charlene strolled through the swinging kitchen door. “You’ve got a visitor in your office.”
I wiped my hands on my apron. “In my office? Who is it?”
“Professor Hastings, Dorothy Hastings. And since Marla’s still loitering at the counter—”
“Say no more.” I raised a hand, palm out. “The office it is.”
I hurried through the door and paused behind the counter.
Petronella leaned one elbow on the register and stared, eyes narrowed, at the full tables.
Was a convention in town?
“Petronella, I’ve got to talk to someone.” I motioned down the hall. “Are you okay here for a few minutes?”
“Yeah, yeah.” She waved me off.
Charlene followed me into my office, which was getting more of a workout than usual on a Friday afternoon.
Arms crossed, Professor Hastings paced in front of my desk, her Shirley Temple curls bouncing.
“Professor Hastings,” I said, “I’m—”
“This is your fault!” Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she’d missed a button on her long white blouse.
Charlene quietly shut the door behind her and leaned against it.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I finished, my shoulders curling forward.
“Are you? Michael comes to Pie Town and dies that night. Aidan comes to Pie Town, and he dies! Do you detect a pattern?”
When she put it that way, it did look a little odd. I swallowed, my throat thick, not knowing what to say.
“Why did you really invite us here last night?” Her arms dropped to her sides.
My cheeks heated. In the face of her grief, I couldn’t bring myself to lie. “Because I thought one of you had killed Professor Starke, and I wanted to know why.”
She gaped. “Are you kidding me?”
“Now, now,” Charlene said, leading her to the wobbly chair. “Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll get you a cup of coffee. Or would you prefer tea?”
“Tea.”
“I’ll be right back.” Charlene bustled from the room.
The professor and I stared at each other, the silence stretching and thickening.
When Charlene returned with the tea and a saucer filled with sweetener packets, I blew out my breath.
“Take your time.” Charlene handed Professor Hastings the mug and saucer.
“If what you say is true, if you really believed one of us killed Michael, then you put Aidan in a room with a killer,” the professor said.
“If you believe that’s true,” Charlene said, “then we didn’t put them together. The pack of you work together on a regular basis.”
Guilt curdled my insides. Had the pie-making class precipitated another murder? But no, I didn’t think so, because someone had tried to electrocute Aidan McClary earlier.
“That night of the storm,” I said, “Charlene and I went to the home of Aidan’s neighbor. There was a downed po
wer line in Aidan’s flooded yard.”
“I told Aidan to get that fixed.” Dorothy’s voice hitched. “He had it wrapped around a tree branch.”
“I looked at the branch later,” I said. “It looked like it had broken downward.”
Professor Hastings looked at me blankly.
“The wind wouldn’t have broken it that way,” Charlene said. “It looked like someone broke that branch by hanging on it.”
“Intentionally?” Dorothy lowered the saucer to her lap. “But—Because of the live wire? But that’s crazy.”
“Why would someone want Professor McClary dead?” I asked.
Her shoulders slumped. “Not someone. Piotr. Piotr Jezek. I saw him slash the tires of Michael’s car.” She gulped. “He must have come back, and . . .”
“Come back?” I asked.
She shook her head. “His car was parked across the street from Michael’s the night of the reading. I saw him drive away after he cut the tires.”
Charlene jolted forward, and the calendar slipped to the linoleum floor. “But what—?”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to interrupt Dorothy’s flow. “Tell us exactly what you saw.”
“I saw Piotr get something out of the passenger side of his own car. He crossed the street and bent down by Michael’s tires. Then he got into his car and drove off. I didn’t realize what had happened until I learned much later Michael’s tires had been slashed.”
I nodded to Charlene.
“And what were you doing there?” she asked. “You said you were home that night.”
“Aidan and I’d had an argument. I didn’t want to go to the reading. I knew it would just turn into a pissing contest between Aidan and Michael, and it would be even worse if I was there. But I felt awful. So I came late and was driving around, looking for parking, when I saw Piotr.”
“And then what?” I asked.
“Then I realized I’d been right, all the men in the English department are insane, and I really did drive home.”
“Why did you lie?” I asked.
The professor colored.
“Because the wife, or in this case, ex-wife, always is the most likely suspect,” Charlene said. “Dorothy’s behavior was suspicious. She never came inside Pie Town the night of the poetry reading, even though she was here, in San Nicholas.”
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